


come again (the way you came before)

by MajorAccent



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 20:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14119836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorAccent/pseuds/MajorAccent
Summary: T’Challa is already shaking his head before M’Baku even finishes. “We have always been equal, brother.” He says, trying to invoke their shared lineage and history. “Wakanda has always respected the Jabari's choice to be self-sufficient, but...” He trails off, at a loss for words. “I believe there is a bridge where my father only ever saw a chasm.”“A bridge,” M’Baku echoes, incredulous. “I didn’t realize that you were an accomplished poet, such lovely words.”





	come again (the way you came before)

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Chinua Achebe's _Things Fall Apart_ :
> 
> “If you had been poor in your last life I would have asked you to be rich when you come again. But you were rich. If you had been a coward, I would have asked you to bring courage. But you were a fearless warrior. If you had died young, I would have asked you to get life. But you lived long. So I shall ask you to come again the way you came before.”

“I was surprised by your invitation,” M’Baku’s strong, deep voice intones, still seated in the ornate chair to T’Challa’s right. He traces the edge of its armrest, polished wood carved in swirls.  
  
“Surprised?” T’Challa repeats, tilting his head. He lets himself openly look at M’Baku now, the meeting holding his focus. Wakanda’s future still in its planning stages.  
  
His fur cloak lays forgotten on the back of his seat, unneeded in the warmer climate of the lowlands. His gauntlets and shin guards in a pile at his feet, leaving his forearms exposed where they’re crossed over the barrel of his chest.  
  
A beat passes, the silence between them heavy. M’Baku breaks eye contact first, a quick flicker from T’Challa to Okoye hovering in the wings.  
  
T’Challa’s gaze shifts to Okoye, her stance deceptively casual. Ready to strike and defend, a snake coiled and ready for anything. He jerks his head toward the door, silently dismissing both her and the other Dora Milaje near the exit.  
  
Okoye gives him a curious look, still suspicious of M’Baku and Jabari in general. The wordless question sits, giving her pause.  
  
M’Baku snorts, obviously picking up on the distrust. “Go,” he commands. “No harm shall come to your king.”  
  
Okoye still trails, spear hefted on her shoulder. “He is your king as well,” she informs him, voice cold.  
  
“Oh, yes, of course,” M’Baku says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. Clearly unimpressed by T’Challa, Okoye, and the formality of it all.  
  
“Go,” T’Challa says with a sigh, pulled into exasperation by both of them. “I will be fine.”  
  
Okoye huffs and clenches her fists, but leaves quick and silent.  
  
“Why were you surprised?” T’Challa starts again, turning to M’Baku. “I wish to foster peace between our people and you have proved yourself in many ways.”  
  
M’Baku’s slouch straightens in simmering rage. “The Jabari have proven to be your equals for what?” He demands. “For you to deign us with your presence? To finally have a seat at the grown up’s table?”  
  
T’Challa is already shaking his head before M’Baku even finishes. “We have always been equal, brother.” He says, trying to invoke their shared lineage and history. “Wakanda has always respected the Jabari's choice to be self-sufficient, but...” He trails off, at a loss for words. “I believe there is a bridge where my father only ever saw a chasm.”  
  
“A bridge,” M’Baku echoes, incredulous. “I didn’t realize that you were an accomplished poet, such lovely words.”  
  
M’Baku leans back when he teases, exposing his stomach in a subtle taunt. Projecting how unthreatened he is.  
  
“Please,” T’Challa implores, not rising to the argument that M’Baku clearly wants, eyes skimming down the length of him. “I want your friendship,” he admits, persistently honest. “An advisor and ally at the very least,” he turns on his throne, nodding to the huge windows that overlook the sprawling city. “I am in need of people I can trust, especially now.” T’Challa turns to look at M’Baku again, steady in his eye-contact. “I am happy to place my trust in you a thousand times over, M’Baku.”  
  
M’Baku’s shoulders slump, hands unclenching as he turns the words over in his head. “Why?” He settles on, the fury and hunger for a fight leaving him only to be replaced by confusion.  
  
T’Challa smiles, happy to see that he’s gaining footing. “You have done so much for Wakanda,” he says and then corrects himself: “for me.” He clears his throat, fighting the urge to fiddle with the kimoyo beads around his wrist. “You and your army were the turning point against the Border Tribe,” he acknowledges. “But more than that, you cared for me when I was on the brink of death, agreed to look after my mother, and refused the heart-shaped herb for yourself.”  
  
“You see a debt, then?” M’Baku questions. “I already told you: ‘a life for a life.’”  
  
“This goes beyond that,” T’Challa argues. “I owe you so much, a step in the right direction is including you in the council. You should be here to give input on things that affect Wakanda, that affect the Jabari. But that’s only a small token, it is not even close to enough. I would give you anything you asked for.”  
  
“Careful,” M’Baku cautions with a wry smirk. “You might not like what I ask for.” It’s light and teasing, but the edge is there. The implication of a dark, unfulfillable boon looming.  
  
T’Challa simply leans back in his throne, crossing his legs. “You would not ask for it,” he asserts, confident and secure. “You value the outcome of our fight too much.”  
  
M’Baku laughs, full of bass and loud. “I would not have the patience to deal with it,” he agrees readily, comfortable in his truth. “But that is not what I meant.”  
  
“What did you mean, then?” T’Challa asks, curiosity piqued.  
  
“Why do you look so serious?” M’Baku snorts, that bravado and lilt coming back. He stands, stretching to his full height and giving his shoulders a roll. “I simply want a room for the night, Jabari is too far to reach before sundown.”  
  
T’Challa sighs through his nose, disappointed and relieved all at once. “That is no trouble,” he agrees, the multitude of rooms available not needing to be said. “But that does not pay my debt.”  
  
“Of course not,” M’Baku says with a nod, hands on his hips. “I may not even call upon it now,” he muses aloud, mouth pulled in a thoughtful frown.  
  
“M’Baku, please,” T’Challa chides, also standing. This debt is a token of good fortune, a weighted symbol of the decision for Wakanda and the Jabari to move forward together. Holding it over his head seemed cruel.  
  
M’Baku cocks his head, giving T’Challa a sidelong look. “Do you know that your mother and sister knelt to ask me for aid?” He asks, already towering over T’Challa with his height. Forces T’Challa to look up at him. He crosses his arms again, a decision made.  
  
“Should you have me kneel?” T’Challa asks, trying to read M’Baku’s face. He’s suddenly glad that Okoye’s not here, would raze the earth and salt it at the mere thought of him on the floor and vulnerable. But he’s not Okoye, doesn’t think of it as humiliating. Kneeling in respect should be as easy as breathing, especially now.  
  
“Would you?” M’Baku answers with a question, steadfast and unyielding. “Would you kneel for me?”  
  
“If that is what you wanted,” T’Challa says, holding his arms loose at his sides.  
  
M’Baku studies T’Challa, eyes heavy with consideration as he tries to determine if T’Challa is as good-natured and well-meaning as he’s trying to claim.  
  
T’Challa doesn’t blink, only meets M’Baku’s gaze openly. He knows there’s some warmth in their fledgling partnership, M’Baku’s willingness to attend a council meeting and participate proof of that. But it’s still tumultuous from generations of separation, the newness still needing time and care in order to bloom into something steady and reliable.  
  
Seeing nothing but earnest offering, M’Baku jerks his chin in a nod. “Yes,” he voices as an afterthought, nodding again. “Yes, that is what I want.”  
  
T’Challa goes easy, sinking to his knees without preamble. His cloak pools across the stone, drowning his legs in the fabric. He doesn’t push his luck, doesn’t ask if this is all that M’Baku wants. It’s really a simple request, small in the grand scheme of things. “Thank you,” he says sincerely, bowing his head. He reaches out, taking M’Baku’s wrist and tugging his hand closer.  
  
M’Baku’s stays silent as T’Challa takes his hand in both of his, tugs him a step closer, and then touches his forehead to the back of his hand.  
  
“Thank you, M’Baku,” T’Challa continues, eyes closing. “Thank you to all of the Jabari people, Wakanda owes its future to you.” He sinks lower, resting on his haunches now. “We are stronger together and you have my gratitude.”  
  
M’Baku’s hand twitches in T’Challa’s grasp and he clears his throat, the moment stretching for longer than he expected. “Are you finished?” He asks, voice rough and quiet, betraying the levity he’s trying to force. “I only asked you to kneel, not give a speech.”  
  
T’Challa gently taps his forehead to M’Baku’s hand a final time before letting go. His eyes open heavy-lidded, gazing up at the tribal leader.  
  
M’Baku’s hand clenches into a fist once it’s free, the phantom touch still weighted and earnest. “You are welcome,” he mumbles, staring down at T’Challa. His eyes skip over the features of his face, down to the hollow of his throat, further still where the silk and cotton dips and exposes his collar bones.  
  
T’Challa smiles, wide and bright. “I am happy to give you what you want,” he says, still kneeling. “Even when I think you deserve more.”  
  
“You might not like what I ask for,” M’Baku repeats, but it’s different. No longer teasing, his voice is rougher, too aware of their positions. He can feel himself staring, can’t help how his eyes flick to T’Challa’s mouth.  
  
“We will never know unless you ask,” T’Challa replies, head tilting with implication. He looks to M’Baku’s eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips when he realizes how distracted the other man is. He jerks his chin, the silent question floating between them.  
  
M’Baku takes a half-step back, clearing his throat when he realizes he’s been caught. “That should be freely given,” he gruffs out, too prideful to give it a name. “Not taken as payment or used in making deals.”  
  
T’Challa laughs, a gentle and surprised chuckle falling out of him before he can even think to catch it. “I would expect nothing less,” he tries to console, seeing how M’Baku’s shoulders have straightened and tensed at the sound. “I would give it freely,” T’Challa says, using his own words. “The question is if you want to take it.”  
  
M’Baku hauls T’Challa to his feet by the fabric at his chest, eyes dangerous and searching as he towers over the small king.  
  
The silence is electric, coursing between them.  
  
T’Challa can only breathe, arching to meet M’Baku, his own hands scrambling for purchase in the leather armor at his waist, the dried grass of his skirt crunching with the force.  
  
“What about…?” M’Baku trails off, trying to recall the name of the Wakandan spy that led the queen mother, the princess, and an American to Jabariland. His grip is unrelenting, but the doubt and hesitation remain, persistent in this abrupt and skewed foreplay.  
  
“Over,” T’Challa confirms with a shake of his head. “Nakia could not—her work was too important for her. I could not bring myself to ask her to give it up.”  
  
M’Baku stares down at him for a beat, trying to measure T’Challa up. “Do you want this?” He asks outright, pulling T’Challa impossibly closer.  
  
T’Challa nods, confident and sure. “Yes,” he voices on a breath.  
  
M’Baku shoves T’Challa back onto his knees, gripping the king by the chin. “Tell me to stop,” M’Baku orders sternly, booking no argument. He knows the power that T’Challa holds, that even without the power imbued in him from the heart-shaped herb T’Challa is more than capable.  
  
This wouldn’t be happening if T’Challa didn’t allow it.  
  
“Please,” T’Challa says, eager and pliant in M’Baku’s grip, mouth opening in pants.  
  
M’Baku unknots the side of his skirt, quickly tossing it aside. His cock curves between his legs, thick and ruddy. He tugs on T’Challa’s chin, pressing it open as he takes himself in hand. T’Challa leans into it, a quick flash of tongue wetting his lips before M’Baku slides the head into his waiting mouth.  
  
The spit-slick, blood-hot cavity engulfs and consumes, T’Challa quickly bobbing his head down to the root, hitting the back of his throat before swallowing around M’Baku with a pleased hum.  
  
M’Baku gasps and curses as the suddenness, not expecting it. His hand clenches on T’Challa’s chin without thought, free hand moving to clutch the hair at the base of his skull. “Hanuman,” he grunts and blinks down at T’Challa, only to see the king’s own eyes half-lidded with molten heat.  
  
He pulls back, running the flat of his tongue up the length, the tip edging under his foreskin to swirl around the head. M’Baku’s hips jerk at that, forcing himself deeper, nearly down T’Challa’s throat again.  
  
T’Challa moans, the sound vibrating around M’Baku’s cock until he thrusts down to the root again. “Fuck,” M’Baku curses, torn between pleasure and worry that he hurt the king in his carelessness. He loosens his grip, pulls back to apologize, but T’Challa only clamps his hand over where M’Baku is clutching him by the hair, encouraging him to hold on as he swallows around him again.  
  
“I—” M’Baku stutters, breath heady, lost.  
  
M’Baku watches as he slides past T’Challa’s lips, cock wet and straining, string of spit still connecting them. “Please, M’Baku,” T’Challa begs, voice already wrecked. He ducks down, laving his tongue over the slit, trailing down to press a kiss to the base, nosing at the curls. Even further down to his balls, sucking one into the tight heat. “I will not break,” he promises, hot breath fanning out over the base of his cock.  
  
M’Baku snatches T’Challa by the chin again, pulling his mouth open to make a space for himself. He shoves his thumb past his teeth, feels the tongue curl around the rough pad. “As you wish,” he thunders in return, pulling back and lining up, pushing the head inside with a slow slide. He holds still, T’Challa’s gaze unflinching as M’Baku brings his thumb to his own lips, sucking the spit off.  
  
T’Challa wants this, he reminds himself as he gets a tighter hold on the base of his skull, urging him back before pushing him down, a tentative shove sliding down into his willing throat.  
  
No resistance, no gag, no choke.  
  
It happens with an easy thrust, T’Challa swallowing around him, muscle fluttering around his shaft. M’Baku mumbles a curse, pressing his knuckles against T’Challa’s cheek, feeling the dirty slide into that wet heat. Eyes hot, he presses forward, deliberate and slow all the way down, T’Challa’s plush lips at the base. “Your fucking mouth,” he growls, a quick circle of his hips shoving in with a quick jerk, balls brushing the king’s chin.  
  
T’Challa’s breath shudders out through his nose in a gust, hand reaching up. He grabs hold of a strap of leather on M’Baku’s flank, eyes faithfully open and alert. He whines, tight and hungry, begging for the tribe leader to give him more, to be rough.  
  
M’Baku hisses through his teeth, feeling that sound. He drops a hand on T’Challa’s shoulder, notching his thumb against the hollow of his collarbone. He spreads his legs apart, getting a more stable footing before he slides out and thrusts back in, watching his cock disappear into T’Challa mouth, the indecent display of the king of Wakanda on his knees, his own dick hard between his thighs.  
  
“Touch yourself,” M’Baku growls out, breath hitching every time T’Challa swallows around him, catching and squeezing the cockhead. He won’t last, can barely keep himself from slamming himself down T’Challa’s throat.  
  
He hurries to comply, hand shoved down his cotton slacks; doesn’t even bother to take his cock out, just wraps his hand around the shaft and strokes in time with M’Baku’s tempo, persistently slow and deliberate, humming in relief.  
  
M’Baku presses his thumb to the corner of T’Challa’s mouth, thighs jumping in effort as he speeds up, giving three quick punches forward, cock pillowed on that hot tongue before he slows right down again. “You will take what I give you, right?” He questions on a murmur, too aware of how well T’Challa is following him, hand quick and slow at each turn; a warbled noise of disappointment at the loss. But M’Baku’s greedy for it, every little moan and wanting whine under the wet lap of T’Challa sucking him down. “Be so good for me.”  
  
The wild thought of doing this again crosses M’Baku’s mind, of getting familiar with T’Challa’s mouth, his body, makes him thrust into the base, hold himself still as T’Challa lets him sink in and stay there, looking like every wet dream he’s ever had, cock twitching at the idea. M’Baku pulls all the way out again, sliding against T’Challa’s cheek as thrusts his balls toward his mouth, trying to stave off his orgasm. “Hanuman,” he repeats, feeling his stomach and thighs clench at the denial, hand clutching the fabric at T’Challa’s shoulder. “Fuck, I want to wreck you.”  
  
T’Challa whimpers, the sound reverberating against M’Baku’s skin. “Want that,” he admits, voice harsh and gruff, breathing against the coarse thatch of hair, pressing a bite to the crease of M’Baku’s hip. “You can, want you to,” T’Challa reiterates and presses a quick kiss to M’Baku’s wrist.  
  
M’Baku’s hips stutter, cock leaking at the thought that T’Challa would want more. T’Challa flicks his tongue out, curling around the base before he slides up the side of his shaft, teeth grazing his foreskin. Ducking down again, he drags the flat of his tongue from base to tip, darting forward to lap at the dripping precum.

M’Baku grunts as T’Challa’s slick, scorching mouth envelopes his cock again. Lips stretched wide around him, mouth raw and full with the strain. “Look good like this,” M’Baku manages, snapping forward. “Better than I imagined.” His hands clench tighter, trying to find footing against the rapidly appearing edge. He shoves down to the root harshly, feeling T’Challa gag for the first time, the wet noise of his throat constricting, muscles spasming around him.  
  
It makes him want to pull back, to apologize for his negligence, but T’Challa only holds on tighter against his hip. The panther strength hard and unforgiving against the bone, pressing bruises into his skin. His other hand is wringing his own cock for everything he’s worth, a near-constant moan echoing in his chest.  
  
“T’Challa,” M’Baku grunts, ripped out of him for the first time, a mix of awe and caution. His balls are drawing up and legs locked up in anticipation, he tugs sharply at T’Challa’s hair, trying to give him a warning. T’Challa’s eyes only flutter closed, using both hands to hold on to M’Baku’s hips, forcing him still as he sinks down to the base.  
  
M’Baku comes with a gasp, stomach swooping out from under him as his cock twitches and weeps, coming down the king’s throat. T’Challa doesn’t let up, only swallows and bobs his head, milking M’Baku for everything he’s got, pushes him right into the pleasure-pain of overstimulation. He makes an embarrassingly high sound, nudging T’Challa back by his shoulder. “Stop,” he manages on a quivering breath, drawing back.  
  
T’Challa’s mouth is wet with saliva and cum, eyes half-lidded as he blinks up at M’Baku, a small smile starting to spread across his swollen lips. Doesn’t even fight him when M’Baku hauls him back to his feet, cock hard and straining in his pants. “I—” he starts to say, voice watery and spent.  
  
“My turn,” M’Baku says simply, sitting down, pulling T’Challa into his lap, the king’s back to his chest. He thrusts his hand into T’Challa’s undershorts, shoving the layers of clothes down enough to take T’Challa’s thick cock in hand, other arm banding across his chest, chin hooked over his shoulder to watch while he worked.  
  
T’Challa sighs, head tilting back with an arch of his neck, legs spreading as much as they can with the fabric around his thighs.  
  
“I could tease you,” M’Baku whispers lowly into T’Challa’s ear, closing his fist around T’Challa’s shaft, stroking quick and sure. “Could make you beg for it,” he continues and bites the shell of his ear. “But I will be kind,” he promises, twisting on the upstroke.  
  
T’Challa manages a garbled noise, trapped with zero leverage to fuck into M’Baku’s hand. “Please,” he wheezes, settling for grabbing M’Baku’s thigh in one hand and his wrist in the other.  
  
M’Baku pulls down his foreskin, skirting a nail under the sensitive head. “Go on,” he murmurs, not even trying for finesse anymore as he rackets his pace up, stroking furiously, free hand finding a nipple and pinching it viciously.  
  
“M’Baku,” T’Challa gasps out, hand clamping down around the tribe leader’s wrist as everything pulls tighter and tighter, legs jumping and straining with it, so close.  
  
“I know,” M’Baku murmurs and shoves his fingers into T’Challa’s panting mouth, forcing them all the way back. A sob escapes T’Challa’s chest as he sucks them in, pinned in place, a taut line as M’Baku works him over. He inhales sharply and then everything snaps forward as his eyes roll back, cock jumping and painting M’Baku’s hand.  
  
M’Baku gentles him through it, swiping the pad of his thumb over the twitching cockhead until T’Challa weakly slaps his hand away, completely limp in his arms.  
  
“Well,” M’Baku muses after a couple of moments, flicking cum off his hand before he wipes it off on his bare thigh. “I certainly do not think that would have happened with any other king or Jabari leader.”  
  
It surprises a laugh out of T’Challa, snorting at the thought. “No,” he agrees, content to stay put, sure that his legs would wobble under his weight. He does, however, finally notice the layout of the room. “You’re on my throne,” he observes without a trace of anger or annoyance.  
  
“I am,” M’Baku admits, the decision to sit on it not a conscious one in the heated moment. He darts forward, hooking his chin over T’Challa’s shoulder again to whisper hotly in his ear: “I think you like me up here, though. You relish me being in control, my king.”  
  
“Only in some capacities,” T’Challa allows with a smirk and sly eyes, decidedly cryptic.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written because I couldn't get over the image of T'Challa kneeling for M'Baku, so. Here we are.
> 
> Please, please, please if you liked this let me know through a comment or throwing me a tweet. The audience for this fic is small, so like. Validate a bitch, please and thank you.
> 
>  **ETA:** the hand to forehead gesture that T’Challa does is called the _mano po_ in Filipino culture. It might exist in other cultures, I don’t know, but. I’m Filipino, and as some of the Dora Milaje’s embrodery and beading were inspired by Filipino tribal work, I felt like I could have this one thing. The _mano po_ is an extremely respectful gesture and felt appropriate. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://acespaceacepilot.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/SgtKarma), so drop a line wherever you see fit.


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